


Blood of the Covenant, Water of the Womb

by AGlassRoseNeverFades



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Baptism and Rebirth, Cabin, Developing Relationship, Gen, M/M, Memory Palace, Post-Fall, Recovery and healing, Will's Boat, baby steps, i.e. my two favorite post-fall tropes merged into one because why not, they're getting there slowly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 23:04:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16396781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AGlassRoseNeverFades/pseuds/AGlassRoseNeverFades
Summary: A conversation that happens on a boat, but not really.





	Blood of the Covenant, Water of the Womb

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Winter_of_our_Discontent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_of_our_Discontent/gifts).



> Written for the FannibalFest Kickstarter prompt "water."

It is still new in many ways, this tentative sharing of the hallowed landscapes between their minds. It started subtly long ago, Hannibal is sure, but they started venturing those halls together, in full knowledge of the other’s wakeful presence, only as recently as Will’s visits to him in prison, and never further within than the Norman Chapel, the room which Hannibal once described as the foyer into his own palace.

They are in deeper territory now. Shared space within the small confines of the cottage they are staying in while they convalesce from their wounds, and shared space within the far lovelier (though to others, perhaps, more frightful) backdrop of their imaginations. Still, they have stuck to rooms which are far more his own aesthetics than Will’s—his Baltimore office, the Uffizi, even Paris once. Will’s rooms are buried much deeper within, hidden, and Hannibal knows not to push lest he risk the careful peace between them.

He does not expect an invitation anytime soon, and is thus wholly surprised on the third week of their recovery to one day find himself on a boat, the gentle sway of waves beneath his feet and stars glittering in the velvet dark expanse above. He breathes in deep the scent of salt and brine on the wind and smiles up at the dying suns beyond reach. Of course, Will’s rooms would not be rooms at all. And this is only one of them. The unending stretch of sea and sky, both black as night around them, is still not enough to contain all that Will Graham carries within him.

He finds the other man stretched out on the deck, with legs folded up and fingers laced behind his head as a cushion, also gazing upwards. He wonders if the stars they envision are the same. He hopes they are.

Will waits until Hannibal has also laid back beside him to break the comfortable silence. “The real thing was impounded at Palermo, of course, not long after I left. I’m sure somebody got a really great deal at the next city auction.” The wry smile which spasms on his lips is not wide enough to pull at the healing scar on his cheek.

“What was her name?” Hannibal asks. The gentleness behind his own voice is not something which surprises him anymore. Will inspires much in him he never thought he’d feel again.

“The _Nola_.” Will’s eyes flit briefly to his before glancing away again. “For New Orleans. My dad was born there. Went back to be buried there too.” He swallows lightly. Hannibal’s eyes trace the movement of his Adam’s apple bobbing along his throat. “He always wanted a boat of his own, but we could never afford one. She was a real fixer-upper when I got her, but even after repairs were done I never took her out on the water until…” Until.

Hannibal does not say aloud what they are both thinking, that neither of them can ever go home again. Home is adrift now, wherever the two of them wash up ashore. He cannot say that he minds.

What he does say is, “I am honored that you would feel comfortable enough to bring me here.” Will snorts, perhaps at his seeming formality though he is being nothing but sincere. Hannibal half-expects a joke at his expense about pushing him overboard, but Will surprises him again.

“I brought Abigail here too on the trip to Italy. Well. In the same sense that you and I are here now anyway.” Being in this wide open space Will has created appears to make the man himself more open as well. Her name still carries an ache and always will, but it does not wound as it once did.

“We bring our dead with us wherever we go.” It feels like a confession. Forgiveness still bleeds between them. He will not ruin the harmony they have found at last by shying away when they prick themselves on the teacup’s shards now and again. This is life, in all its messy splendor. Teacups do not come back together on their own. They must be picked up and examined first, their pieces slotted back into place with care to make them whole.

They are not there yet. But they are getting there. He is grateful for that and would never wish to rush it.

“I’m a little worried now,” Will makes a confession of his own, another wry smirk playing at his lips but Hannibal can see the pain there. “What it might mean, that I’ve brought you here too.”

Hannibal leans, sitting up just enough to pull slightly at the bandage on his abdomen, not visible in this liminal world but easily felt in the real one, and allows the small wince this elicits to show. He touches Will’s injured shoulder with just enough pressure to see his response mirrored. “We are here, Will. We are alive.” Will huffs. Now, instead of the boat and the ocean beyond, he sees the moonlight spilling in from the window and the cramped bed they share in the one-room cabin they are holing up in to recuperate. Will is equally vibrant and present in both realities. Their palace is vast and beautiful, but they do not live there. They don’t need to.

“We have both died and been reborn,” he finishes. Will rolls his eyes, then his neck until it pops before he shifts his position to slump back more comfortably against the pillows, his senses all returned to this reality as well.

“You know, it’s usually the mother who gets to complain about the pain of childbirth and remember it,” he grumbles. “In this case, our mother was the sea and she’s the salty bitch who spat us back out.”

Will has fallen now into one of his favorite moods—snarky and exasperating. At least he is not quipping about beef and comparing himself to a cow this time. Hannibal reminds Will that he was the one who pulled them over the edge.

“Oh, so you’re saying I’m my own mother _and_ yours now?” Will grins crookedly. “My psychiatrist is really going to have a field day with that one, don’t you think?”

Hannibal sighs, but does not pull away when Will twines their fingers together even as he continues down this silly thread, endlessly fond.

When he listens carefully as they drift off to sleep later, he can hear the waves again lapping gently against the hull.


End file.
